The Mafia Don's Regret: Torturing His True Savior

My husband crushed the metacarpals of my left hand—my drawing hand—with a heavy leather-bound book.

This was Punishment Ninety-Six.

The offense? I had missed a single phone call from my stepsister, Joyce.

According to Don Austen Ballard, ignoring the woman who allegedly saved his life fifteen years ago was akin to high treason.

"Discipline is the highest form of love, Alana," he whispered, watching the violet bruise spread across my skin.

He calls shattering an architect's hand "love."